Work let out early today for the eclipse, so I decided to squeeze in a run before the moon blotted out the sunlight. I grabbed a bite to eat and climbed the stairs to get changed. Ow, my thighs complained. I cchanged into shorts and a t-shirt anyway and wend back down the stairs. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Outside, I did some stretches because I've been told they'll loosen things up. They don't, but I did them anyway. The first steps of the run were tough, but I ran down the block and along the brook.

It didn't go well. I was too tired. I couldn't keep myself going. I ran only two miles at a slog. Returning home, I felt defeated.

I had the urge to write about it as I do most things in my life. I couldn't figure out why until I typed the first line of paragraph two: it didn't go well. Right away I wanted to begin the next paragraph like this:

It went pretty well. I was tired. I had some trouble keeping myself going. But I ran two miles and I don't often care the pace at which I'm moving. I feel good just having run.

Then I could write this: The run was bad, good, neither, both, and more than I can imagine.

The sooner I accept that, the better I'll move through this world whether at a run, walk, crawl, or even standing still letting the universe pass me by.